Going Home
by Terisrog
Summary: As Jorah and Daenerys fight the wights during the Long Night, Daenerys comes to realize that she does in fact love him. She tries to understand her own feelings as her poor knight grows more and more confused by her attentions. Rating for chapters 4-5. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

When Daenerys turned and saw that the strong arms dragging her away from the beheaded wight did indeed belong to Jorah, she gleefully smiled up at him. Her heart leaped in gratitude. Of course it would be her knight, sensing her distress and running to her at her moment of need. He had such a way of eluding death, it sometimes seemed to her he was more unbelievable than her dragons. Her children sadly didn't have his knack to dance through the fingers of Death.

Moments before, she had been face to face with her doom and terrified out of her wits. Now, as she trudged in the nearer pile of corpses to find a suitable sword, she found her mind basking in wonder. In a weird way, it was the first time in a while she felt so at ease with herself. There she was, yielding a sword for the first time. _Behold, wights!_ she exulted. She was actually pulling it off: they were holding their ground. She didn't have her babies nor her army. She was standing on her own two feet, a Queen of her own right, with only her knight by her side. He was her strength, and she was his. With him, she felt pride in herself once more. She felt invincible.

Yes, her heart screeched every time a sword scraped Jorah; the world seemed to hold its breath for the grain of time it took her to believe he and her were both still poised on their tightrope. This was how time worked now. An exhilarating drink of the night, then a shudder; and again the jubilation that they were still there, still together, still unstoppable. Her faith in them was infinite.

It all went tumbling down as Jorah staggered. His misstep hit her straight in the guts, as if she had swallowed fear fresh and sharp. She reached to him—her hand on his arm meant _take all my strength_. He remained standing, a step before her, and she pinned him there with her gaze, convinced that if she blinked he'd keel over. He squared his shoulders and raised his longsword and her fear abated a little; a thirst for safety rather than drowning in horror.

Her heady confidence was lost. She felt so tired, her arms ached. All she could see was that night stretched out before her. The wights kept coming. This would never end. Could a Queen and a Bear live longer than an endless night? The battle took on a foggy quality; the world narrowed to a foot around her. All she had ever known was the Long Night. She had been cursed on this field, battling a foe as permanent as the night which spawned it. When the wights fell as one, she didn't drop her guard: surely it was a ruse.

But they didn't raise. A small beacon of light trudged through her senses. Jon must have finally defeated the Night King, he must have! She inflated in pure hope; turned to Jorah as he was dropping to his knees then further on his back, and her hope turned stinging in her mouth. She fell too, gathered him in her arms. He was sputtering, gasping, his lungs in pursuit of his breath. There was blood everywhere, and she didn't know what to do, oh gods, he couldn't leave her, he couldn't, he…

"I'm hurt," he said, oh gods she knew, but why didn't he move? She felt as if she had turned to ice, her hair raising, her skin going numb, her blood freezing all the paths to her heart. She held him close in her arms and said _no_ again and again, for she knew he would heed her words if he could. Hope leaked from her in tears, turned to sobs, sliced out of her in cries of disbelieving agony. She heard his voice in her mind, all intense as he professed "You know I would die for you" and her heart screeched as she forbade him to.

She could feel him slip from her power to that of the realm behind. As she beheld the void he would leave, she recognized for the first time what he was for her. Her love. She had found him and lost him and found him again, and he loved her the most. The memories reeled. Shadows danced round and round in the blackest of all nights. She could see it all now; the staggering disbelief that could have made her throw up her heart when his betrayal was revealed: it had been her heart rebelling that someone she loved could have done this to her. The wonder when he had given her a peach in a desert, it had been love. The elation she had felt when he came back to her, again and again and against all odds; this was love. The exhilaration as she witnessed him healed. All the softer beams of sunshine when he smiled shyly at her, all the intimacy she craved when she wanted him to cuddle her when she was lonely or sad or had lost track of her faith in herself. The fact that she trusted him above everyone else, that she trusted him enough to let him change her mind, the sweet infuriating way he had of disagreeing with her—stubborn Northerner! All of her memories of him were sewed in love and she hadn't even realized.

Oh she knew she had loved him, as her oldest friend and most trusted advisor. But she hadn't thought—she thought romantic love was the sexual infatuation she had felt with Jon Snow, and now she realized that she had it upside down. She wasn't sure that she wanted to have sex with Jorah but she had been wrong, oh she had been so wrong… her greatest love had always been by her side, and now he was dying.

But she wouldn't allow it. He _had_ to come back to her side. She would bring him back. She sliced his armour up to better see his wounds and gasped as she saw his chest thrice pierced. Tears froze on her cheeks as she tried to stop the bleeding: it couldn't be too late. She had to save him as he had saved her. He couldn't die for her, he had to live and stay by her side as he _promised_ he'd do.

She heard Drogon land behind her. Her child brought her to her senses. She was the Unburt and there was one element she could use to save him. Fire.

"Ser Jorah, you have a duty to your Queen. I forbid you to die. You are blood of my blood, blood of my own heart. I forbid you to give up."

She called Drogon over. She could see flashes of Jorah holding him up gingerly when Drogon had been a baby, how her child had once singed his beard and he had only laughed; a sound so rare she could hear its echo now. Now Drogon was so big his head was as large as Jorah. And yet he was breathing gently on her knight as he nuzzled the wounds and whined, a sound so desolate that Daenerys scolded him: "We _will_ save him. We _have_ to". Drogon breathed smoke through his nostrils, his eyes letting her know he understood how important Jorah was to her. After all, apart from her, he was the only human Drogon had known all his life.

"Perzo Vūjita," Daenerys whispered, holding Jorah's flesh together as Drogon put a brand-hot tongue on his chest, welding the damaged skin. She prayed to whatever Gods were listening that it would work, that Jorah was enough of the dragon to endure the flame and let it heal his wounds. Twice more Drogon did this. The sizzling flesh smelled horribly like charred meat, but it seemed to stop the bleeding. The burn was ugly but it had to hold until help could reach them. It just had to. She had Drogon set fire to a pile of wights to provide some heat for Jorah. The smell was repulsive but she had no other way to keep him warm. She couldn't see if he was still breathing; she couldn't hear a sound and was cold to the bone. She couldn't hear his heartbeat but her own was ringing so loud in her ears she wasn't sure she would have heard a Dothraki chant.

She held his hand between her own two, let go to stroke his cheek, let go to comb his hair, let go to feel his chest, let go to hold his hand tighter. She didn't know if he was kind of warm because of the raging fire nearby or because there was still a spark of life in him. She rocked on her heels, waiting for his eyes to open and for him to smile or frown—by all the Gods, he could do what he wanted if he only lived. She didn't know whether she could hope to hope, or if it was all much too late; and so her tears ran freely down her face, as she waited for any sign that he had not left her for good.

Why didn't she realize she loved him sooner? Why hadn't she known what her emotions were called? She had been so focused on the awe in his eyes, she had utterly failed to look into her own feelings. How could she have put all these men whom she didn't love before him? How blind she had been. How foolish. How trusting she had been that he was above the laws of men and that she alone may govern him.

Maybe if she had desired him from the start… but she had been so young. She had needed the thrill of the chase to awaken these feelings, and he was so steady and so fixed. She had been confused for a time, thinking she was starting to want him; and Daario had turned up. How powerful she had felt, seeing his heart break, revelling in the fact that she could test him so and he would remain true to her. She was ashamed of it now. And then Barristan had gone and exposed his betrayal; would that he had shut his mouth, would that Jorah had begged her forgiveness. But he had been sure in his loyalty to her, and too proud to beg; and then it was too late. From there she craved his presence so much she couldn't have distinguished it from desire. How cruel she had been to him; she could see them now for what they were, the trials she had crafted for him to show her the depths of his love.

Did she long for his kisses now? Even now she didn't know; she couldn't think of it as he lay bloody and cold, all of him spent in service to her, never asking anything in return. And yet, now that she recognized love, she remembered everything as with new eyes. Now she stood at the brink of disaster and face all that she had disregarded. She recalled the warmth in his blue eyes. Oh how he looked at her, her own light when all else was dark. She remembered the soft growling way he had of uttering _Khaleesi_, and even now it made her stomach clench.

_Don't leave me_, she thought earnestly. _I love you too. You mustn't give up._

But he didn't wake up. His eyes stayed shut, even as her tears had cleaned rivulets of fair skin on his bloody face.

At last dawn was upon them; they found them. They tried to take him from her; but she clutched his hand harder so that they would not pry him away. She couldn't speak: if she stopped thinking about him for a moment, he would leave her. As they carried him on a stretcher, she held on to his hand and prayed that it would be enough for him to find his way back to her.

* * *

Pain. All his senses were ringing with it. He could not feel his own body. Pain exploded further than him. The entire universe was made of raging tearing twisting agony.

He fell backwards in a cloud of nothingness and kept falling. He closed his inner eyes and drifted off, slowly, peacefully, to sleep. Thereafter was peace at last. Rest. He breathed out a long silence and let go—and was jerked back into pain as something more powerful raged in him. _Khaleesi!_, it shouted, or maybe that was him? All the pain roared back to life. He saw screeching reds and tasted raw blood and shouted hurt and heard a ringing torment. He didn't think—he couldn't. But he knew that he had to embrace the pain, accept it, live with it. He had not been dismissed. He had not. He had not. A night curtain closed on him, and he dreamed of a shiny string, tied around him and tethered all the way across the sky.

* * *

Then he was no longer dreaming. He could feel his body; maybe if he focused hard enough he could lift his eyelids? There was something of his wit inside his head. He pried open his eyes and he saw her; Daenerys. He smiled because he couldn't speak, didn't remember how one spoke. His heart did the smiling; he didn't have the strength to move his lips.

She raised her head and gasped, her hand clutching his arm, her eyes lighting up. _Jorah_, she may have said. But he was already drifting to sleep again, and in dreams he couldn't be sure anything of her was real.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

As soon as Jorah had been able to string two words together, he had insisted she broke her vigil over him. She had more important duties, according to him. Ha! Privately she suspected he hated to be bedridden in her presence. He had been annoying enough when Qotho had cut through his hip. She had had to order him to show her his wound so that she may tend to it properly. What would have happened if she had let him be this unsubordinated then! A balkiest bear she had yet to see.

The maesters tended to him here in Winterfell, but he couldn't begrudge her wanting to check there was no trace of infection. And damn the infection anyway. She had a right to gently steep her soul in his presence. The brass of him! He almost died on her and expected her to carry on as usual. He could put that in his pipe and _smoke it_. Let him be his own dramatic self all he wanted (she made no promises about not berating him, mind), she would still check on him every two bells. And keep her own little spies reporting to her if there was even the slightest change in his condition. Yes of course she wanted to know if he coughed. What did these pesky servants didn't understand about _any_ change?

And then he had wanted to get out of bed and walk, on a so-called quest to build up his muscles. The nerve of the man. You saved a knight who had the gall to get stabbed, and before the moon was up he wanted to go off gallivanting. Probably so he could proceed to slip into a moat and scare her to death. Well he could be as stupid as he wished, but he would do so in the presence of his Queen. She wasn't about to let him out of her watch.

These walks were the gentlest ordeals she had ever been in. She couldn't seem to stop touching him. She needed to assure herself that he was here with her; that his skin was warm; that he wasn't a ghost from times past, keeping her sane in her own madness. She had formed the habit of kneading his forearm. After a time he would look quizzically down at her; she'd stop. And then she would commandeer his arm once again. She just couldn't help herself. Without massaging his arms, tendrils of fear curled on her lungs, pushing themselves in her thoughts, convincing her she had dreamed him out of longing.

Was she right? Was this really love? Maybe it was just panic. She simply didn't want him to ever leave her. Nor to ever look at another person the way he looked at her. He was hers alone. _Her_ gentle bear. _Her_ mighty knight. _Her_ bashful man.

But what if she had misread yet again what she felt for him? Her own selfish self wanted to keep him by her side until the end of times; but could she ask this of him when she still felt she was slipping on glass trying to decipher the truth of her feelings for him? And as a Queen, could she even live this phantom life Death had tried to rip from her as he fell? She needed to take the throne and a strong alliance could be everything to secure her position. And yet, she wanted it all.

She could see it still. Jorah standing on this cliff, his golden shirt bringing out the eyes he kept focused on the ground as he spoke the words she knew. "_Tyrion Lannister was right. I love you."_ And then he had raised his earnest eyes and said, _"I'll always love you."_ She could still feel the strength his words had fastened in her spine. He would always love her. He would always be there. But now she knew that choice could be taken from him and that time was running out, even for him. She just wasn't sure she was ready to take the leap. Not just yet. She needed to make sense of herself.

She realized she had started to fiddle with his arm again, and felt dizzy with relief when he looked down at her. He didn't precisely arch an eyebrow at her but she could see the trace of it anyway on his brow. She was so used to him walking just a few steps behind her. She knew exactly how to turn her head to look into his eyes. Walking so close to him, their arms entwined, it was so different. No human force could have made her let go of him. He felt taller, more solid; he felt like someone she could kiss. Yes, she could kiss his cheek, in the hollow space traced by his sharp cheekbones; right where his beard stopped. Even now she longed to put her hand on it, to stroke his beard, to touch her fingers to his lips and see if he breathed a promise on them, if she could feel the shadow of a stolen kiss from his mouth to her flesh.

She couldn't trust her own feelings with him. She had trampled his own quite enough. She couldn't afford to give him false hope. He didn't deserve her to let him think she wanted him. Not while she wasn't sure of herself. Not while she was battling with herself on whether she could forfeit a political alliance for him.

And so instead she played with her thoughts on each walk. She looked at him and imagined him smiling at her, how the small laugh wrinkles would appear on the corner of his eyes; lines she was sure were made for her, for who else did he smile for? There; she didn't have to imagine it: he was smiling even now, and her belly flipped. She breathed out with anticipation, as if her breath could fly her closer to him.

If she only moved her hand, she would feel his jawline, as she had done when she didn't understand anything of herself. How that man looked at her. As if the whole world was grey and she stood there with her rainbow palette, painting it bright for him to see.

Or instead she could reach out and tousle his hair some more; she liked when his hair wasn't sleeked back. Then she would tug him towards her; he would comply but stop at a distance, looking at her expectantly; he was always expectant, never demanding. She would whisper, "Can I kiss you now?" and he would say that he was hers as he moved obligingly his mouth closer to her so that she could easily claim his lips.

Her insides twisted deliciously, and she clamped her fingers on his arm. Jorah smiled at her shyly and said, "I'm not going anywhere, Your Grace," and the realization came to her like lightning. She tried to remember the last time he had called her Daenerys, or even Khaleesi, and drew a blank. Suddenly she heard herself, the day she banished him, uttering coldly: "_Don't ever presume to touch me again or speak my name"._

In a pang of awful guilt she grasped at her memories: did he touch her? He used to, casually. It comforted her so. Of course he had touched her since, pulling her to her feet during the Long Night, and the times when she had touched him first, like now. But when she had hugged him on his return to Dragonstone, he hadn't put his own arms around her; he had kissed her hands as he left on that foolish quest with Jon, but only because she had forced them in his first. Gods. Her sentence, spoke in hurt and anger, was still festering in him. The words she had hurled at him were blisters in his heart, as real as the day she first uttered them.

She had destroyed so much of her precious relation with him. And yet he still loved her more than anything. She felt tears prickling at her eyes; she was still tender from the Long Night, from the fear, even from the unfairness that chafed at her as everyone celebrated Jon and the Starks and not _her_ work.

She could see now that they had never once spoken about his betrayal. That she had never told him in such words that she had forgiven him. She had never, ever told him that it had hurt so much because she trusted him more than anyone; that he had hurt her horribly, but that she had missed him more. She had missed him so much it had turned everything sour. She could have drowned on air in these lonely nights. Without him to anchor her, she was adrift. She had been a dream without a believer.

She had never told him that she could now understand that the Daenerys he had betrayed wasn't the one he loved; that she saw he had done so before he knew her, and that Barristan had been glad for this excuse to push him out. He didn't know how she had cried, how she had hated him and longed for him, that she wanted to hit him until he felt all of her hurt and rage, until he was as shattered as she was. And yet she had wanted him to hug her so tightly that all of her parts would crush back together until she felt strong again.

She had never told him how desperately she had wanted to call him back. That she had felt his presence as constant as a ghost, as if he were still by her side. She had not told him it was his voice she had heard in the Great Grass Sea, urging her on, and that she had listened to him. Or that she held her posture so well now because she had learned it the hard way. Oh yes, she had learned not to turn in hope and see an empty space where he should have been, and so she had kept her neck straight to look resolutely ahead.

She certainly never told him how she had cried. That loneliness had eaten her up, even as she lay in the arms of others. He didn't know that when she looked for peace in her life past, she seldom searched for her beloved lemon tree, the red door of her own house in Braavos. Instead she sought eyes as blue as the sea, kind and steadfast, that spoke to her of belonging.

She had never asked how he had been cured of the Greyscale. The first time she had seen the awful scarring, it had been when he was lying there before her, dying once again because he wanted to save her, his life the only thing he still had left to give her.

They both had erected a flimsy bridge over the gulfs she had forced between them. Well, _she_ had built a flimsy bridge and he had doggedly climbed down and clambered back up to her. She had to make it right. She had to make the first step for them to build a blasted whole colossal arch in dragonglass. She wanted no more hurt between them. These blisters had to heal.

"Jorah," she said, and she saw it—he braced himself. He was afraid of her rejection, of her judgement. She could see them now, in hindsight, all the small signs she had missed. For her, his banishment was a raised white scar. For him, it hadn't even scarred. Because while she knew he would always be there for her, he didn't know she would be there for him. Gods. He didn't believe he was the whole of her life.

"Jorah," she repeated more softly, and he cast his eyes down to hers, something of a fear begging to be tamed in his gaze.

"Yes, my Queen," he answered.

"I hope you know that I'm proud and grateful to have you by my side; that all of the past is forgiven."

He nodded hesitantly, longingly, and she added:

"I do no longer mean what I said in Meereen. My words were shards because they reflected my thoughts at the time; but, please—I cannot bear for you to keep what I said alive in your mind. Lay them to rest, as I have. When I welcomed you back in my service, it was as my dearest friend, as the one I trust the most in this world. If there is someone who deserves to . . . touch me, to speak my name, surely it is my own sweet bear."

Jorah looked awestruck and, once not so long before, she couldn't have held this relentless stare; now she basked in his attention, risking for him to see hints that the feelings she had for him might have changed. He inclined his head a little for her, then stood taller than before and squared his shoulders; a trait she had always found endearing—but now it clenched her nerves and dried her mouth.

"Aye, Daenerys," he whispered somewhat reverently, stumbling on her name though he rounded each letter in his mouth, taking care to craft every sound perfectly. His voice broke a little, and he could not hide that her words had sewed something back in his heart he had no longer believed could heal.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Jorah bowed over Daenerys' hands to kiss them, as was now customary for them when she joined him for his daily walk. He half-heartedly told himself to keep his eyes fixed on her wrists, but as always he ended up raising them to hers. He was powerless to preserve himself. He craved the soft burn as he saw her watching him more than he feared the unfulfilled need choking him as he remembered she didn't love him as he did. It was enough; it had to be enough. And if he could not stop his heart fluttering in his chest each time he touched her, each precious moment in time when she smiled at him, each time he kissed her name as he said it, it was because each of these prizes was the prouder trophy he had ever won in war or love.

He still couldn't believe she had forgiven him. He had stayed awake for hours after she had graced him, staring at the ceiling, hopelessly wide-eyed. His brain was frizzing over her words which kept running in his mind, stumbling over each other in his haste to remember them all. He needed to live the memory again and again: she had looked at him and called him _my dearest friend_, and held his gaze as she declared him _the one I trust most in this world_ and deemed him _someone who deserves to touch me, to speak my name_. He could see the words hovering in the air; it had been so cold they had come out of her in white clouds. _My own sweet bear_, she had said. The words fizzled in his blood like wine. Days later he felt drunk as he remembered her; Daenerys; how she had looked, her gaze intent and solemn, absolving him from all his sins, her eyes fond as she dubbed him so: _my own sweet bear_. His heart thudded in time with the rhythm of it. May that she never rescinded her words, that this would always be his place in the world. May that when another Jon Snow stepped in to claim her bed and heart, four words would let him remain at her side, watching over her; her own sweet bear for all of her days.

He still didn't know what had happened between her and Jon Snow while he lay unconscious, but it seemed clear enough they weren't together anymore. He didn't know if he wanted to smile madly or behead Jon. For all he was King in the North and still alive after being killed, he would find a way to bring him to justice if he had hurt her. Maybe he could smile as he cut off his head? He needed to ask Missandei if she could give him a more complete picture of what he had missed. Surely she of all people would know. He had put it off because he was too afraid to hear Missandei say Daenerys still harboured feelings for the man.

Maybe their separation was the reason he couldn't make heads or tails of her behaviour. She was acting so peculiar. She would stare at him sometimes, as if he were some fragile snow sculpture melting in the spring warm air. In these moments, he had to clutch at her words to believe she still saw him as her protector; but why did she seem so concerned? Was he no longer the same knight who had stood with her against hordes of wights? Surely he had proven he could withstand almost anything. Sure, Arya Stark had actually killed off the Night King and lived to tell the tale, but even compared to her, he didn't think he was _that_ much of a snowflake.

It didn't help that he was indeed feeling weaker after the battle. He had to admit a large bulk of his muscles seemed to have melted with his forced rest. He exercised in secret in his room when Daenerys' spies weren't around, but he was still sore and his lungs felt twice as small than before. But _still_. It was vexing. At least he managed to avoid Tyrion's teasing most of the time. Hiding was definitely more effective than glowering.

And when she wasn't staring, Daenerys was giving him what he supposed she thought were stealthy side-eyed looks. Sometimes, she looked as if he might bolt off at any moment and retreat in the wild. He couldn't give her more proof than going back to fetch her from a sea of wights now, could he? If she still didn't believe he'd never leave her side lest Death herself came and took him from her, well… It was as if she was studying some strange wild animal and figuring out how to tame them. Wasn't he tame enough? It was mind-boggling. She only had to give the word and he would carry it out. He would serve her, die for her, do anything for her. She knew that; she had to know it.

If it wasn't confusing enough, she had also taken the habit of kneading him, as if he were some kind of dough. Whatever was she trying to achieve with that? Her fingers sent darts of yearning straight into his heart. She couldn't have better weakened the fragile defences he had erected around his heart if she had gripped it straight into his chest. It was all he could do to stop himself from leaning into her and scaring her off.

She seemed anxious, all the time. Unsure of her own footing. But why? She only had to remove Cersei from the Iron Throne and there it was—the Seven Kingdoms would be hers. Of course the Northerners were acting like knuckle-headed elks, but surely even the most mulish of them would come around. Well it would help if the damn Jon Snow stopped acting weirdly and stepped in to defend their saviour and Queen. What could weigh on her mind so? And why would she carry it alone, without asking Missandei or her own resident advisor? It mystified him to no end.

Right now, he could sense she was nervous. He knew all of her walks, all her stances; he could tell she had something on her mind. He was about to ask her if she needed any advice when she took a deep breath and said in a particularly regal voice: "Ser Jorah, if you wanted to take back your rightful place as Lord of Bear Island, I would help you to the best of my abilities."

His mind froze completely.

For a moment, he couldn't think at all.

He had not felt so terrified since the dreadful day of his banishment; was that it then, was this to be his eternal torment? He should have known it would never end, that he'd have to be torn from her yet again, that he was doomed for endless goodbyes.

"Are you," he cleared his throat, "are you banishing me again?"

"What?" she said. "Of course not."

"You are," he exclaimed. He hadn't wanted to raise his voice but he had, he felt all choked up, as if he might die after all. His lungs had failed in the end—it had been a respite, a small stash of air and now it was running out. "_That_ is why you said you had forgiven me. You didn't want us to part in anger."

"I am not banishing you," (now he had pissed her off. She was seething more than Drogon ever had) "I'm giving you a way out if you want to reclaim your title as Lord of Bear Island. I know your people no longer have a leader and… you always wanted to go home and I promised we would, and now here we are."

They looked silently at each other. Her eyes were so hurt, it tore at his heart; she mellowed his stare, he couldn't help it. Even the true Mormont glower wasn't a match for her. She looked up at him as if she were lost. As if he were the one who had to make a decision. Why was she acting that way? She hadn't looked at him in that fashion since her first months among the khalasar, and even then they both had known the last word was hers to have.

"I…" he said, and then he stopped. He wasn't a man of words; he couldn't say to her what he felt without making his feelings too plain, and that hadn't worked out so well in the past. But she was still looking expectantly at him, and suddenly he had the strange notion that she was scared of his answer. Why would she be afraid?

At the very least he could give her facts.

"I have approved Lyanna's last request in the event of her death. The Mormont bannermen and women were to select themselves the leader they felt was more appropriate. They have chosen, and now a new Sow will be heading them."

She still didn't say anything. Had he said something wrong? His throat felt scratchy again. He saw that her eyes were a little misty from the cold; they should head back inside soon. She wasn't a Snow Dragon and didn't endure the climate very well. She was made for lying on a bed of fire and under the kiss of the sun.

"I have known for seven years I wouldn't return to Bear Island as anything over than a visitor, Your Grace. When I burned Robert Baratheon's pardon, I didn't burn my dream. My dream… it belonged to another man, in another time. So don't make me go. Please."

She just stared and he started to shuffle his legs.

"Does this mean _home_ is no longer Bear Island?" she asked in what he thought was a small voice. She shouldn't play with his old heart so. "You know it's not, Daenerys," he chided her as gently as he dared and more dejectedly than he would have hoped. She didn't seem to notice. "Did you say seven years?" she asked finally, in a really quiet voice.

"Aye, Khaleesi," he answered and saw with white terror her eyes were leaking. He raised her hand towards her, stopping an inch shy of her face. Did he still have the right to touch her? Or had he forfeited it somehow? She grabbed at his hand and tugged him towards her and dropped her head on his chest. He felt faint.

"I'm such a fool," she mumbled. "Well it's not as if… I knew, but to hear you say – I'm sorry I didn't listen to you before banishing you. It would… have changed everything for me."

"Khaleesi," he rumbled, and then stopped, partly because he didn't know what he could say that wouldn't be stepping out of line, and partly because he thought she might have made a sound. Then he took a deeper breath and dared to speak just a tiny speck of his mind. "I'm sorry too. I'm sorry that you and all of your children were in danger because of me."

She squeezed him tight and his heart drummed and fought against his will that his arms would stay firmly at his sides. And then she said, her voice muffled on his cloak: "I forgive you."

He dared to breathe again; he still had her favour—but she snapped at him: "_Now_ that I've told you, again, that I've forgiven you—don't just stand there! This is supposed to be an embrace and you are not doing this right."

His heart; it was bursting at the seams, because it was too much. And it was not enough; his heart was so hungry it could never have gorged itself up with the small favours she threw his way. It craved her, it wanted her, it was trying to clinch its way out of his chest. He raised his arms gingerly and placed them carefully around her small build, every touch echoing tenfold on his nerves. It was too much for him to take but he needed a lot more; and now the spark he had struggled to keep doused was blowing to life.

"Hold me tighter," she whispered into his chest. "You make me feel safe."

His eyes stung. Desperately, he held back the words wanting to be let free—_I love you. I will always keep you safe, you will always be safe with me_—and held her as close as he dared, knowing she could feel his heart thumping and thumping.

She sprinkled hope on his thirsty heart; too little for him to believe she would love him, too much for him to stop believing she could change her mind. And he could feel her under his hands, like he had never felt her before, even when he had sometimes carried her. He could feel her soft flesh, the heat of her body passing through him. Her hair teased his nose and he only had to breathe in for her scent to fill all his lungs, all his heart, all of him. He could feel her breathing in and out on his throat. It made his hair stand up on end. Her soft breasts were pressed flat on his chest. He had one hand on her back, right on the spot he had dreamed he would use to push her flesh against him; the other was on her neck, where he could touch her naked skin, her skin right there under his fingertips. He was going mad. Maybe he had died after all. His hands trembled as he tried to reign in his desperate, doomed, foolish hope.

"Jorah," she breathed.

"Daenerys," he pleaded. It meant: _You do know I love you, Daenerys_. _Don't hurt me_, he implored with his eyes firmly shut_. Please don't. Please don't crush my heart more than you have to. Please. Don't give me hope_. But he very well knew all the blame lay at his feet. His place was very clear. He was her dearest friend and if it was all that she would give, then it was all that he should hope. It was he who preened under her glances. It was he who could never teach his heart to be contented with what it had; he who was destined to come short.

He would always hover just outside the threshold of home.

He released her, and she lingered a moment longer, stroked his beard, traced his cheekbone with her finger. He thought his heart would stop. His legs went wobbly again and he feared he would collapse there on the ground. Then her eyes regained a sharper focus, and she withdrew her hand. On the walk back to his chamber, she was silent, mulling over something in her head; it confused him so. How could he help her? What was her plight?

He bowed his head to her when they reached his chamber. She smiled a little wistfully and said: "I'm glad you're not leaving, Ser Jorah."

"You know I won't ever leave," he assured her before he could think to reign the words in, and she smiled at him. "Good night, Jorah," she said softly. When he closed the door, she was still looking at him, seeking something in him. But what? By all the gods, _what_? He leaned against the door, his heart hammering, his mind more confused than ever.

It was another sleepless night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Daenerys jolted awake, breathing hard, annoyed with herself and longing for release. Couldn't she have slept just a little longer? She had been a wave away from a mind-blowing peak. In her dream, Ser Jorah had been kneeling before her, his lips hot on her sex, his teeth gently grazing her, his tongue twirled deep inside her folds… and each time she gasped or writhed or tugged on his hair, he would growl her name, would come just straight of purring, sending up the sweetest sharp vibrations from her belly to the end of her toes and the roots of her hair.

She felt herself heating up as she clenched her legs together, trying to hold on to the vision just a few moments more. Her fingers groped blindly for release; but it was no use touching herself. The mood was gone.

And yet the need remained. She groaned. When she closed her eyes, there he was, rising his inquisitive eyes to hers, inclining his head, smiling in a private way that added shyness to his soft gaze. He stayed outside of her reach even in her dreams, all because she had put him there. And now, she was lost in this bottomless pit of a quest she had dug herself in. These last weeks gnawed on her. Her feelings were raw, astray, all over Winterfell. She craved him. She needed him to take up her frayed nerves and plait them back together. She wanted him to assuage each fear she had, to kiss them away and caress them until they turned to trust.

Her brain commanded her to breach with him all the subjects she absolutely didn't want to discuss. It had taken all her might to offer him to go back to Bear Island. How he had looked at her then—she had seen his heart exploding in a million pieces. Each of her heartbeats had tolled in her chest, a music of gloom to go with the excruciating wait while he struggled to answer her. What if he had been tired of waiting for her? What if he had turned away then? He said she had a gentle heart but he was wrong. Her heart was thorny, prickling in her fears. His heart, now—it was velvety like a perfectly ripe peach. He was so sweet, her gruff own bear who could glower and glow both.

Then she had told him about Jon's secret—so much for insisting he wouldn't breathe a word of this to his sisters—and about their separation. And she had listed all of her fears to him: that she wouldn't break the wheel, that she felt inadequate. She had seen the people follow her nephew—she supposed she must call him—and not her. Here in this frozen land, they didn't trust her.

But Jorah did. And through each of their walks he had been her steady anchor. She had felt tossed in the wind, with her allies disappearing down in the cesspits of time; and he had held her upright. She knew the cost to him; she always knew when he saw right through her. And there he was, her poor knight whom she loved and kept hurting, seeing right through her, unable to recognize what he saw, because she had trained him to close his eyes.

A few weeks back she had doubted her feelings matched with the words she knew; still she doubted, for now _love_ seemed small a word. Each day, she felt her heart inflate as it tried to encompass all of Jorah. She kept finding moments of him she wanted to keep safe: all his smiles, all his frowns, all his looks. How could this one word comprise all that she felt for him? These four letters alone, were they enough to explain how she soared on his confidence, how his heartbreaks cracked her own heart, how seeing him made her feel? He grounded her deep down in the earth and made her fly higher than high, up above the sky, above the stars even; he made her heart dance there, in the infinite from whence he came, with his golden hues and his sky-eyes-blue.

Yes now when her heart pressed in love, it was only one word that came to her, one word big enough to hold it all, and the word was _Jorah_. Jorah, Jorah, Jorah, spinning her heart round and round. She felt that if a maester were to cut her open to find the matter humans were made of, he would find as much of Jorah as he would of hers in her bones. Blood of my blood. Heart of my heart. Soul of my soul.

Gradually, slowly at first, all the tiles had tilted. When once he had spoken, his gravelly voice had soothed her; now it echoed on her nerves, awaking a need that she could no longer quench. Some weeks ago, his gentle eyes and shy smile had warmed her heart; now it heated it. And each of his features turned onto themselves, and now here she was, bursting in too-greedy flames, to a point where he could barely raise an inquiring eyebrow at her without her wanting to mount him like a tree.

Now that he was feeling better, he was back at her side most of the day. It was grounding and excruciating both. How had he sustained waiting for her for so long, she would never know. She didn't have his patience; she could no longer wait. She had to take the final step or explode trying to keep her kisses inside. She lived with her hands on his arm and it burned her inside. It was only a matter of days before Missandei turned her inquisitive glances to questions. And if Tyrion stepped from his glass a minute, his mind would see what wine veiled; she didn't want to hear him tease Jorah about _feelings_. She couldn't begin to imagine a talk more doomed to disaster than that.

There were so few truths she had kept from her knight; but they were the most important ones. She was a coward. She loved him. Yet she feared to make him too big a promise; she was a Queen and she could not be sure an alliance wouldn't be necessary to secure her throne. He was so proud, however; she couldn't imagine him being satisfied with being only her lover. It seemed unfair, when she wanted him only for herself, when she would have gladly burned anyone taking him from her. And she couldn't well rebuff him in this; it was his house's words; it made her heart beat quicker when he stood tall and unyielding. She loved him being so headstrong that he defied her and Death and anyone.

But if he turned her down, what would she have left? The men and women who had shared her bed had made her smile; made her feel, perhaps; but he was the only one to live in her heart. And what if he took up another gamble with Death and lost?

Yes; she was a coward; he had withstood everything for her, and here she was, trembling. She had freed slaves but she kept herself in a prison of her own making, for she was eating fear, hating herself for it, and still was unable to stop herself.

She groaned and buried herself under her pillow. He might be as unshakable as a tree but he loved her. So if she could only kiss him, he might mellow a little. But would it be fair when she wasn't sure of her plan? And how did one go about kissing a bear anyway? Sometimes she wished he could sweep away the space separating them and kiss her first. Here I stand indeed, she scoffed. Here I stand and won't budge an inch even if I'm about to be overrun by thirty horses was truer to form. But that was unfair; he would never take the first step and it was all her fault. She had stamped his dreams down. She had severed his will, as cleanly as if she had cut off his shadow. He had surrendered his heart entirely in her hands, and his kind eyes watched with nay but softness as she pierced it with her nails. Gods, how he looked at her; how he looked at her. It made her own heart soar, it soaked her in guilt. _Wait for me just a little more, just wait_—she had to find a way soon. Her heart couldn't take much more of this.

Oh, she wanted him. She wanted to fondle him, she wanted for her hands to touch the naked skin on his chest, wanted to feel his arms without his sleeves on; she would trace the sinewy lines she was sure to find there, she would trail her tongue over them; she would brush her cheeks on his hair, she would kiss the pulse at his wrist. She would drink his sweat, eat his voice directly on his tongue, she would sip at his essence, gorge herself up with it. She wanted to melt in his arms, she wanted to taste his mouth, to kiss his lips, to grab his hair; she wanted to feel him down and watch him gasp; oh how for once she wanted for him to take pleasure from her power over him.

In the end, she decided on the queenly way. She would order him around until he saw she was in earnest. It had to be the best plan.

She kept an eye on him all through supper—she could see him become flustered easily enough. No doubt he was trying to imagine what she wanted him for; she was quite sure he was far from the truth of it. She smiled at him in too naughtily a smile; now he seemed wary.

When she stood, so did he; he wasn't supposed to guard her while he was convalescing, but the habit was ingrained into him. She supposed he could have sensed when she rose with his eyes closed and his back to her on the other side of the room. She narrowed her eyes at him and cast her gaze from the table to the door; he followed behind her silently. Her heart swelled a little: surely there was no one else who had the privilege to make oneself understood without speaking as much as a word? She could feel him two steps behind her; she was sure that they moved in time. If she stopped, he'd stop and if she cast her head back, it might just fall on his shoulder.

It was a good enough plan, but not private enough for a mistrustful bear.

She marched them to his chambers and looked back at him imperiously.

"Your Grace?" he asked.

"Well, open the door, Ser," she ordered. He knew better than to cross her when she used that tone of voice, and he did so readily enough, though he was perusing her with a very guarded expression.

Then she pushed the door closed, and they were alone, in a very barren room that seemed to push his bed forward.

"I would see how your wounds fare, Ser," she asked. She could almost hear his teeth grind together as he tried to find a way to refuse her. Evidently he came short, or thought it wasn't worth the argument; in any case his jaws clenched—she became lost on the sight of his jawline clenching and unclenching, his knife-sharp cheekbones, the hair of his beard eating at his neck; she imagined her lips feeling his heart there—and he sat down on his bed and started to undo his armour and then his undercoat, and then the buttons of his shirt. Her eyes fixed on his fingers; though they worked quickly, he was trembling. His hands revealed more and more of his skin, and each new inch quickened her heart.

A simple white piece of cloth protected his skin. The simple fact that it was almost spotless reassured her; his wounds must be clean. He peeled it aside and she saw the reddish scars swords and dragon fire had left on his skin. Three holes in him and three dragons kisses to seal him back; and beyond, the scars left behind by greyscale, almost like small dragon scales on his skin. And beyond, the sheer broadness of his chest. It was as if his built itself commanded his strength, rather than his muscles; it was as if he had always been made to be this strong.

She raised a hand to him, and, when he didn't rebuff her, lay it on his skin. Oh, there she definitely felt it—his heart. It was beating as strong as the hooves of a Dothraki horde. She could see how he strained to keep his breathing in check so it didn't come out too loud; his stomach was taut, and he tried to breathe without moving at all. This made his breathing strange; usually he took these long, steady breathes that she could focus on to stay calm.

The fact that he wasn't calm excited her.

She stroked the scars as carefully as possible, not missing how his shoulder line tensed, how his throat caught on a too-dry swallow.

She looked at him then; he stood very still, as if the merest flicker would cause her offence. Once more, she gave herself time to see into herself: the absolute trust she had in him; the way he now aroused her; the way his beautiful blue eyes and his strong frame made her eyes smile; how she wouldn't change even his most annoying traits; how he made her feel, powerful and strong enough to be herself, and even, yes, even a bit gentle; and the way her heart craved him and clenched for him. It was all there. All of her love for him.

His eyes were very soft, and very, very afraid.

She smiled at him and cupped his jaw. He leaned into her hand, frowning a little, something of a desperate, hungry look in his watchful eyes.

She pulled his face closer to hers, took a fluttery, excited breath, and kissed him. She wasn't sure if her heart had dropped in her boots or floated up to the stars, but she wanted more than this one spark, more than this huge leap from her heart to his. She settled on his lap and there she tasted him at last, there she kissed him and kissed him more, there she grazed his lips between her own; and he surrendered his tongue to her; and he kissed her back.

He growled. The sound went straight to her centre. It was even better than in her dreams. It travelled on her nerves; it wasn't her ears listening to him so much as her whole body, craving to hear more, each bit of her skin yearning to feel his voice too.

She pulled him down to her onto the bed, getting drunk on his tongue, swallowing his growls, gasping in his mouth. He pressed her to the mattress and she wanted him closer still. She ground her hips against him once and twice and thrice more. It was so very, very easy to make him growl and she was enjoying it very much. So much that she ended up laughing, and as he released her lips to bestow upon her the most beaming smile she had ever seen on his face, she couldn't help but laugh, laugh and then hug him and squeeze him as hard as she could, her legs locking him in place, keeping his head on her chest, so that he knew he wasn't ever _ever_ allowed to leave her on her own. And as her smile overflew, so did her emotions, and the water born in laughter in her eyes turned to anguish.

She grasped his arms. "You had me so afraid, Jorah. I thought I'd lost you. And I can't do it again. I can't—I can't stand we became so good at saying goodbye because I don't know what I'd do without you! I don't know. I—you can't die. You can't leave me in this world alone. You are my strength." She touched his scars again. "You pledged your life to me so many times. I want you to know, it is your life I want. Not your death in my name. Your life. Promise me you will do everything in your power to stay alive and well by my side."

"I would never abandon you," he answered, his voice raw as he repeated his vows. "I'm sworn to protect you, to serve, to . . . live for you as long as you need me."

"Then serve me to the end of time," she ordered and kissed him once more. And because she had laid her whole heart bare except for three little words she still needed to tell him, the dam across her heart broke down, and she cried in earnest, her tears running in all the new roads in herself she had discovered, cleaning the paths she now knew were in her. She cried for time lost and time to come, for might-have-beens and for the bridge between them that stood stronger than ever.

She cried for the gentle resignation in his eyes, telling her his heart lay barren at her feet, and that even now he believed she would eat it whole without giving him anything in return; and that he'd let her, he would let her take all that was his without ever fighting back, all because he loved her before himself, he loved her so completely he would let her destroy him if he thought it'd make her feel better.

"I'm sorry," she gasped. She couldn't believe she'd lose it this night of all nights. She hadn't wanted the night to end like this; she had only wanted him, and here was she, breaking down. "I'm sorry," she repeated, trying to get him to understand what she meant. But he only shushed her, rubbed her back, kissed her forehead, rocked her in his arms. "You're going to be alright, you'll always have me, I believe in you," he crooned to her.

His voice was low and calming and as it passed through her again and again, calming her nerves, her tears dried and her mind stilled. No longer was she running in circles searching for herself. She stood still and calm in her own mind. She felt as clean as if she had rinsed her own heart under a waterfall.

"Do I still have your love?" she mumbled, feeling drowsy.

He kissed her eyelids reverently, tasting her tears.

"You have it always, Daenerys. I love you. I'll always love you," he said, his voice echoing strangely in the night, his chest rumbling against hers. "Have no fear; you may play and break me, my Queen. I will endure it all. I'll be just as strong as you need."

"My bear," she thought she said.

"Yours," he breathed in her ear, the sound carrying her off to sleep, his arms a ring of warmth, ever keeping her safe.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Jorah awoke in a cloud of happiness. His heart was crowned by a smile; his mind was as restful as the sea, when it was blue and the sun sparkled on idle waves. He was so deliciously warm. As he stretched a little, he realized he was not in fact on his pillow but that his head was nestled between…

He gave a start as the evening came rushing back: how could he have fallen asleep after Daenerys had kissed him? And seeing that his head was on her breasts, it couldn't have been a dream. It was real. His heart began hammering in his chest as a dizzy feeling overcame him. What if she had changed her mind? What if she had been drunk—no, he'd have felt it on her tongue; now his ears began to heat up as he thought back on their kiss, and…

"Shhhh," said Daenerys in a very put off voice. She pushed back his head on her chest, trailing her nails lightly on the nape of his neck, which made goosebumps break all over his skin. "Don't fret so. It's too early in the morning to rise."

Jorah blushed in earnest as his mind conjured the double-entendre. He tried to shift so she couldn't feel him do _precisely_ that. He didn't want to disrupt her rest more than he had already had. Then Daenerys pushed at him and he stumbled to give her space, kneeling on the bed. She seemed quite cross and he started to think back: had he misread something? Had he crossed a line he wasn't supposed to?

"Gods," she said, and reached out to smooth the frown over the bridge of his nose, "don't glower like that today." She beamed at him, all trace of sleepiness disappearing in a blink, and his heart heaved, humbled by awe. He gave her a shy smile in return, not quite daring to believe he was now allowed to let her see he loved her. But if it eased her loneliness, he could show her; he could endure it. His heart could be reduced to ashes in the process for all he cared.

She rubbed her foot on his calve. He thought his heart would stop there and then. "Jorah—did you take off my boots?" Ah—she was wondering at that, then. She was being so unpredictable these days; it would be the death of him.

"Yes," he rasped out. His voice was all wrong, encumbered by too many feelings. He cleared his throat, and she looked at him so expectantly he thought he had to explain further. "I, uh, thought it wouldn't be very comfortable for you to rest with your boots on, Khaleesi. So I unlaced them and pulled them off, too. I didn't want to wake you." Under her scrutiny he heated up and added quickly, "I'm sorry."

She perused him in that searching way of hers. He was getting used to it and so he looked back, content to lose himself in her eyes. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, and he couldn't help a small crinkle at the eyes; it was his heart that, when pressed, squeezed his eyelids so. She smiled again, but the very next moment looked noticeably annoyed again. What had he done now? he wondered, still basking in her presence.

"Won't make a move if I hit him on the head with a steel hammer," muttered Daenerys—at least he thought that was what she had said but why would she—and then she kissed him again and all his thoughts stilled. She moaned a little, which squeezed his heart, but looked annoyed when she broke the kiss, which bit at it. She regarded him a tad imperiously. He had missed this bossy side of hers from the old days.

"Jorah. I'm sorry I didn't seem to make myself clear enough but _I want you_," she said slowly. "I want you to worship me. I want you to show me how you love me, how you think I deserve to be loved. And I want you to speak whilst you do it. At least, do say my name. And you may be allowed a Khaleesi or two. So take charge _now_."

"I . . . You," he said. Belatedly, he remembered to close his mouth, which didn't have the foggiest idea as to how to finish that thought. The tracks on which his mind travelled, the tentative barriers around his heart, all the world he had known collapsed all as one. He stared at her in disbelief. She _wanted_ him? Seven hells, she did? Oh. _Oh_. So that was why… Oh, but it explained everything. So she hadn't turned to him just for comfort the night before after all.

"Oh," he continued, his eyes widening as he recalled all her actions since the Long Night.

He felt more apprehensive than before any battle he had ever fought, more proud than he had ever been. How it was scary, the moment before taking the final step to your dreams. But his mind repeated _I want you_ back at him and he didn't doubt anymore. He was invincible, he could withstand all, endure all, do anything. If this was an abyss he was stepping in, let it be black and infinite—he wouldn't fall; he would soar.

"Yes, Daenerys," he concluded, squaring his shoulders and raising his eyes to meet hers. And then he grinned, and tipped his mouth to taste her lips once more.

* * *

Gods, had she seen this particular smile on his face sooner, she wouldn't have needed so much time trying to work out her feelings for him. She swore it was a line, throwing a hook over the curve of his lips to her inner hearth.

The first kiss of the morning had felt good, like roasting oneself before a great fire after a day out. But now—Jorah unleashed had softer and yet more assured lips, and it felt like stepping into the fire itself. His tongue passed to hers and it too was so warm, so good. The twirls he made in her mouth curled her toes, arched her back. She pressed against him, needing more. He was so warm all over; at long last she had found a sanctuary from the cold in Winterfell.

His hands started to disrobe her. It seemed to her he willed her clothes away; or maybe she was so distracted by the tickle of his beard on her skin, by the rough skin of his soft hands and by his sweet tongue that she couldn't focus enough of the fact that he was unwrapping her like a gift. He nuzzled at her collarbone, inhaling her sharply as if he hunted for a drop of perfume there. "Daenerys," he sighed, and she grabbed his face to kiss him again.

His mouth soon left hers in favour of her neck, her breasts, her navel, while his hands travelled up from her calves to her thighs to her inner thighs, and then both his lips and his hands met on her sex. It sent a blinding light up her centre. His lips called her to him, his deft fingers played her nerves like strings. He buried his nose in her curls, breathing in before remembering her request. The _Khaleesi_ he sighed on her fanned the flames and as she gasped in response, he followed by _Daenerys_, moulding the sounds right there at her entrance, where she could feel his lips moving, his tongue forming the cadence to her own name, the sound of it vibrating on her moist skin.

He rolled her pearl between his teeth, never actually biting down but setting all the nerves there atinkle. "Daenerys," he said again. And he crushed her glans between his lips, lapping at it. He sipped at the honey that dribbled from her, teased her folds with his tongue, then plunged it inside of her, as she had dreamed he would; his nose somehow managing to touch a spot that made her wring. He held her thighs open in a soft grasp, caressing her with his thumbs.

Her muscles latched themselves to Jorah's care, disregarding her head entirely. She started to quiver helplessly. She pressured herself against his mouth, her mind emptying deliciously, and as he hummed in her slit she let go, as she had not often dared to. With him, she knew she could afford the lose herself for a few moments; he wouldn't let harm come to her while she was gone. And so she let herself ride each wave of pleasure as they kept crashing into her.

When her mind focused again, he was leaning on his elbow, still gently stroking her curves, tracing her skin with his calloused and tender hands, his soft blue eyes shining for her. She pecked his lips and held his jaw, stroking his beard, flushing a little as she saw part of it still glistening from her arousal. He saw her redden and grinned again, a sight she was already beginning to crave.

"Bears do enjoy tasting honey from their fair Queen," he said in her ear, in what she thought was an unfairly low voice. Maybe he had at long last discovered the effect his voice had on her. "Yours has such a heady smell, I could get drunk on it and never need more." She nudged her hips against his and could feel him very well indeed. Even now; even now, when she was vulnerable in his arms, when he was so obviously ready, he was leaving to her the choice others had felt entitled to. It made her heart swell some more.

"Do not lie to your Queen, Ser, I can feel you wanting more even now," she smirked. "What shall we do about it?" His eyes crinkled with amusement, like they were wont to do; but this time his smile followed tenfold.

"I have a few ideas," he answered, and kissed her again. She tried to grope him but couldn't manoeuver her hand as she wanted, so she gave up and rotated her hips against him instead. He groaned again.

"Do I amuse you?" he asked of her smile.

"Rather I enjoy hearing my bear growl, gallant azanti," she answered. Her heart missed a beat as he shook himself, raising himself on his talons and growled, his hands extended at her like claws. She laughed; "More!" she requested, batting at his hands and grasping at them both, and he roared like a true animal bear. His smile as he indulged her—it was dazzling. She laughed again and sobered just as quickly when she realized the path to his groin was now free. She made a beeline for it and as she grabbed him through his pants his eyes fluttered shut and he dropped on his back on the bed, putting up his hands in surrender. "The joust is yours, maiden fair," he rasped out, and as she kept massaging him, he called out her name in such a longing voice she thought her heart might stop.

She tore off his open shirt, staring unabashedly at his broad chest all there for her to see, all perfect and _alive_, and he managed to get rid of his pants, letting her see him naked for the first time. It was so unfair that he had seen her naked several times when she had never even caught a glimpse. She assured him of her appreciation by coating him with her own arousal. He visibly strained to hold on as she kneaded her fingers all over his length, pressing down to him and caressing him in turns. How he growled deep down at the back of his throat; she could feel his member pulse and tremble in her small hand. He did look so vulnerable, her mighty bear, looking up at her as she held him like this.

He freed himself to hover over her, his eyes so dilated she could barely discern any blue left in them. His chest was glistening with sweat; she kissed him, open-mouthed, tasting him, swallowing his heartbeats. He carefully rubbed his fingers at the junction of her thighs, before he inserted a slick finger, then two, inside her core, twisting them and beckoning her to him, until she was once more panting and humping at him. She grabbed his shoulders, and put her hands down down down until she had a firm hold on his backside. Gods, his two round tight cheeks were something else she would have to explore further; but he had such distracting fingers, she could only moan for him. When he looked at her then, she fancied she could see all the way to his soul and beyond; his eyes were so bare, she knew everything he had ever felt, and in his pupil, she could see only herself, only an infinite love for all that she was and would ever be.

Before he could think to tease her more, she reclaimed his shaft in her hand. And, ever so slowly, she eased him inside herself, her eyebrows dancing uncontrollably as he slid in. She didn't believe she had ever been quite so drenched and he stretched her deliciously. His hands tightened at her thighs, holding her legs up. He gave short fluttery breaths, his muscles tight as he tried to control himself. Her eyes kept fluttering close but in between, she could see that he was staring wide-eyed at her, as they were joined at last. He stilled at the brink, and then retreated, and pushed himself in once more, grinding his teeth, highlighting his perfect cheekbones; and as relentless as the backwash he thrust in her and she followed him like the moon; again and again they danced until she started to feel light-headed and the spasms came back, clenching her all around him.

His own movements became less controlled and her legs jerked, her toes curling on themselves, her nails planted to the small of his back. She felt the familiar way her mind tried to escape from release to stay in control; but ever seeing through her, he pushed his ring right down on her gorged pearl, his hand getting trapped between them, the iron twirls, the raised globe on it bolting a cry out of her, and she rubbed herself onto it. He brushed it soft and harder and as he did he rolled his hips upwards into her, filling her up, hitting right on a sweet spot, gods, _Jorah_, she called to him and suddenly her brain surrendered to her body; she only felt, she didn't think anything at all, she felt as she had never felt before, she felt as if she had only discovered the purpose of her body. She locked her legs over him, not even knowing if she was still moving, only that they were melting together, and as she was washed away, so he tensed too and his fervent, growly moan carried her back and forth from the stars to the earth.

He didn't let her go as he slipped from her; he held her close. She held on to his arms around her in turn. She wanted to bury herself under his skin. She kept pressing her back closer to his chest and he kept holding her tighter. With any other person, she would have felt crushed or trapped; but it was him squeezing her so. He protected her; but she could fly whenever she wished. He would always let her roam free. This was home, surely.

She was happily floating on her cloud when she felt his jaw clench over her head, which was tucked just under his chin.

"What?" she whispered, twisting her head to look at him.

"What are we to be?" he asked, caution creeping back into his gaze. She knew what he wanted to know. If he would be an unofficial lover, if he would have to share her. That was the bridge she had been afraid of; she didn't want to answer and later felt trapped by a promise; and yet she didn't want to share him ever, nor sell herself for an alliance with another man. And she feared his pride wouldn't allow him to give her this space she needed, to keep them all to herself but never admitting it to the outer world.

She could only tell him the truth.

"I love you," she blurted out. She paused because she knew he would need time to bask in her words, to let them sink deep, to travel all his veins back to his heart. And then she stayed silent because her heart had swelled up and she couldn't speak. She was too happy for it. She choked on joy. "I love you, Jorah," she repeated more slowly, looking in his eyes, honouring the words. He took a gulp of air that didn't come back out; he had swallowed the moment forever, keeping the emotion in his chest for all time to come; he only inhaled in his next three or four attempts to breathe. He didn't seem to remember how to breathe out. His eyes misted over, and he rubbed repeatedly at his nose with his forefinger, trying to keep his tears from spilling. In that he failed; they lined his eyelashes in a row of sparkling jewels.

She took a shaky breath before pursuing. "And we will be as we have always have been: us. I will never again let you walk away from me. Whomever and whatever Gods and men throw in our path, your place is by my side."

"Aye, Khaleesi," he whispered, too dazzled to speak up, "let it be so".

"I . . . Even if I, I . . ." She felt tears of frustration building as she tried to claw the words out of her chest. He inclined his head, knowingly watching her, seeing right through her bones.

"How can you fear my love for you will fray?" he asked gently. "As your advisor, as your protector, as your friend, I have watched over you when you wanted or needed someone else than I. Do you think I will love you any less now that I have more of your heart to claim?" He cupped her cheek in his hand, looking at her. "Do you think I would try to clip your wings, fierce dragon of mine? I want you to achieve everything, you know this. Make all your dreams come true, Khaleesi; and I'll be at your side and though I may get burnt, I can only ever love you more."

Her lips pursed as she tried to keep them from trembling, her heart reaching out for him.

"My sweet darling bear," she said shakily, smoothing his face, "my love". He kissed her tenderly, his hands buried in her hair, his eyes full of salt. "You are my home," she added between his kisses. "As you are mine," he answered, glowing, filling his frame as if he had just discovered there was more room to inhabit in his body. His mouth melted into an incandescent smile. "Daenerys, we made it home!"

"Yes, we did," she answered, her heart squeezed tight, an overflowing fondness in her eyes. She smiled through teary eyes. "It's been a long road going home, Jorah, but here we stand." He drank the fire from her lips, her radiant knight, her golden bear, her truest love. And when she kissed all the sunshine back to him, the beams of a fulfilled dream laced tight two hearts that no longer sought their homes.


End file.
